


A few details away

by Reyavie



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyavie/pseuds/Reyavie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All he wanted was to be a Warden. She sort of gave that to him. Along with what seemed half of the unsolved issues in Thedas. And he wouldn't have it any other way, the bloody masochist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A few details away

**Author's Note:**

> Premise: The only specifics for this challenge are: 1. There has to be a happy ending (Alistair with his Warden love). 2. Alistair is NOT King. Challenge by Eva Galana from CMDA.

The first time Alistair saw what Duncan had sent him, he had honestly thought the older man was several bricks short of a wall. Slightly. Wouldn't do good to insult your own mentor and father figure directly to his face. Exactly why, before his small journey from the Wilds, he didn't pull the Commander to the side and asked in plain terms 'what in the Maker's name were you thinking?' and 'if you stopped by the orphanage and picked up randomly instead of the Tower'.

You see, Samahl was kind of a rat. And not in the 'hey, going to bite if you touch me' kind of rat. But actually a rat. In the not-speaking-shrinking-away kind of elf. She barely raised her voice in the two words she had sent his way after their meeting and the floor, well, the floor was probably her best friend. She did look at it often enough. Maker, she was weird – in an endearing rat weird kind of way but still weird. A profile good for a pet, not so much for a Warden.

Though the wilds did show him otherwise. While she still refused to speak a word beyond a normal volume, she did utter spells rather nicely. Especially disturbing ones. Like draining life, that one was particularly messed up. Or the one who made grown darkspawn cower in fear from a four feet nothing elf. It was just. No offence to Duncan but he had obviously been severely drunk, never mind how effective those could be. He had two words for the older man. _Exploding darkspawn_. He was still getting rid of pieces two hours since, apparently, it was a favorite of hers.

_Maker help us all._

She was a sewer rat though. The type that got stepped on but was able to bite back. Alistair had been forced to realize that when the world fell around him and his mind drifted between periods of sorrow and nostalgia. Samahl didn't speak – as per usual – and she didn't force him to either. Instead, the food got stuck in front of him in regular intervals, an extra blanket in his tent when he least expected it, a whispered comment to the vicinity of where Morrigan stood which was roughly translated into _leave him alone_.

" _Why, so he will jump off the first cliff we pass by?"_

" _No," she replied slowly and – hidden behind the flaps of his tent, Alistair could see the closed fists around her staff, held as in defense between her and the apostate. Her eyes raised – rarity in itself – and hard as he had never seen them. Not that that was saying much. "Because grief's private and no one has the right to tell us how to deal with it. So. So you complain to me. All right?"_

He learned soon enough that not only Samahl was a rat as she was a packrat too. Apostates and random assassins, abominations and Qunari, they were all acceptable to her. She adopted _everything_. She collected pieces of paper like they were some sort of relic, even if half of them could be recipes, receipts and love correspondence on the verge of disturbing. And part of him wasn't sure she had said something about keeping the bloody dragon who paraded around as Andraste. The man had learned to tune out that part of her before she spoke of adopting the Archdemon. Disturbing, really.

And she wasn't that pretty. Not per se. Four foot nothing, grey hair as if the stay in the Tower had aged her before time. Pretty eyes though. Very brown, very dark, half of the time facing the floor. Might have been due to the whole him almost having been a Templar. Might have been the fact that she had been conscripted for aiding a blood mage and dying would be too easy if she crossed the line. Might have been a whole bunch of things and none of the above explained why he ended up liking her either.

Alistair had had this kind of preset for a girl in his mind. An almost mute elven packrat wasn't supposed to be it, thank you very much. But the dumb woman collected figurines. And didn't talk much but listened. And was sort of pretty. Before he knew it, he was a goner. As soon as they faced the Landsmeet and Samahl stood in front of all those people when she would rather be back in the Tower, when she said loud and clear, for what seemed the bloody first time since they adopted Jowan – _another no comment moment_ – that Anora would be the Queen. Alistair knew she was a keeper and that he was a masochist. Not in the interesting way either.

Which brought him to that place, to that situation and to the present.

Two knocks announced his entry, made as soft as possible. Some things were learned in time. Like how loud noises would always bother the elf after the Tower. How she would look at the floor when among strangers since humans did make her uncomfortable. And how her feet were always cold in the early night and she would invariably tuck herself as close as possible since he was her personal furnace. Two knocks before he opened the office door and found his target.

Samahl dressed in the Warden robes all the time those days. Comfortable, practical, well made, everything they hadn't had during their little trips back and forth. She adored them. Fade, if he hadn't complained about how they felt scaly against his skin while they slept, the elf would take them to bed. The staff next to her chair was also new, a fresh discovery from Avernus which, in his humble opinion, shouldn't spend that much time with her. Or she with him. Together. It made him want to hurt things. Living things. Living undead Wardens who stared at lower regions. Crazy old bastard.

_Right. On track. You're angry. For other reasons._

"Ah, I was just about to call you." Small, mouse like, a voice that wouldn't be heard if she spoke from the other side of their main hall. _No, no, don't get distracted_.

Alistair shuffled a little in his spot, entering the room fully to lean against the corner of her table. Just in the place where she wouldn't be able to ignore his questions and search for any other thing to interrupt him. Little tricks, he was stock full with those after that long.

"For a good thing, I bet," he started, interrupting her before she could get going. Because Maker, she could do that. "But me first. You see, I just came back from the revision of the place for the new recruits, right? We had a leaky roof, fixed, by the way, by yours truly. And then a couple of windows broken, we'll have Matthew here in the morning to get those down. And I kept going."

He could see the issue tugging ever so lightly behind her eyes. Two plus two, Samahl wasn't an idiot. Besides, she always winced whenever he caught her doing something stupid.

"And then I left for the."

"I swear I was going to tell you!" She also raised her voice especially when she was in trouble. Like then. Samahl stood physically from her chair, her hands hidden and probably wriggling behind her back like a naughty child. "But he came late yesterday and was so tired. I just knew that. Well."

"That I would be slightly opposed to having Anders hiding in the attic?" Yep, wince. He knew it. "You do know he's an abomination, right?"

She scoffed. Scoffed as if Alistair had just told her he was a mabari. "So is Wynne."

_Different._ "She didn't kill the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall."

"She's more annoying though." No. No, she wasn't. She got his socks right and looked after him and fed him and yes, Wynne hadn't exactly been all for them being together either. But. _But_. The man could see what Samahl was doing. Totally diverging the conversation away from the matter at hand. The very important matter at hand. The criminal abomination hiding in their _attic_.

"He's _Vengeance_ , Sam," he tried to reason. "It's not like you can make him evict the spirit. And if he's found out? We'll be thrown out of here faster than Anora can say traitors to the crown."

_Oh, good Maker. There she goes._ Samahl didn't ask for a lot of things. Usually, she would go with whatever people around her preferred. It was just something cultured in the years spent in the Circle and that had left with her when with the Wardens. During the Blight. Even after all that time, she would only stand up for a couple of things. This was one. Alistair grimaced when her hands stopped fidgeting, setting against her hips with all the manner of a fifty year old matron arguing with her children.

"He'll die if we don't help him," and back to her soft, _I know somewhat better than you_ tone. "We don't send our own to die. You taught me that. With the Archdemon. If you throw him away from us, he'll die. As certain as if you grabbed the sword yourself. We can't do that."

Silence fell all around them, none of them moving nor backing from their stance. One of them would have to give in, it was always like this. Always.

"Fine." _Maker help him, fine._ "But tell him to dye his hair. Cut it. Change his name. And by the love of the Andraste, tell him dump the bloody feathers down a hole and use the uniform. And just because I love you. And you'd spend the rest of the year."

"Five years, minimum." It was mostly him giving in too.

"Reminding me of how I didn't help him in case he died," he completed with an unuttered sigh. "Fine. It's not like we don't have a fair share of issues around. Blood mages and apostates and Maker knows what else you bri—"

The male Warden suddenly found himself with an armful of an elf female, determined to make him understand just how happy she was. Definitely not a fifty year old matron, he thought fleetingly, as Samahl proceeded to pull him down and against her. Sweet dear Maker, he was a sap. Every time she would do this, kiss him deeply in that calm gentle manner of hers, he'd a puddle of a man.

Jowan was right. He _was_ whipped.

It lasted for a while, his wife taking her time to rub the puddle around and melt any remains, before she bounded off, staff almost forgotten behind her just next to the man who was still trying to gather his brain bits together. Why didn't that effect pass anyway? It was like he couldn't develop immunity to her ability to manipulate him. That was so manipulating, damnit. Innocent, hmph, as if.

Little pieces gathered for some time before Alistair made a grab for the letter she had been writing. There was time to read the first two lines – _something about how the first Warden should cough up some sovereigns if he wanted the Keep to belong the Wardens only in more flowery terms_ – when the door opened again. This time to yet another male.

A boy poked his head through the fringe, smiled once his eyes found the elder's before slipping in, as calm as the woman who had just left.

"Morning, dad." The whole adopting thing of hers? This was the one who didn't bother him at all. No more than ten, they had been told, an orphan of the Blight like so many. And Harken had his hair, what were the odds? "Why's mom that happy? Did she find something shiny again?"

It was too soon to be reminded of that disaster. Alistair drew the boy close, an arm over his shoulders in solid companionship. Maker knew he needed it. "An old friend. One that killed a Grand Cleric, almost laid a city to waste and is currently possessed by a Fade spirit."

"Oh." It was probably a bad thing how Harken seemed so at ease with the information. "And she kept it."

"Like a stray cat on a dark city alley."

"Any more and we'll need room added to the Keep." Alistair lowered his eyes to his adoptive son's hair, the very calm way in which the boy studiously ignored him while dropping the bomb. "She said the dwarf boy could stay too. He's nice."

He liked her way to break his brain far more.

"…dwarf boy?"

"Yes," Oh Maker, his boy shrugged it off like it was normal. "A casteless? Mom said she helped out his mom and she swore she'd send him to her when he was grown and now he's a surfacer so."

This kind of thing made him wonder how Samahl was the Warden Commander. It also made him ask _what else_ which was the greatest mistake after entering the Golden city.

"Come on," he ruffled Harken's hair, a small sign for the boy to follow. "Let's stop your mom before she invites Amaranthine to start moving its walls to our courtyard."

His son laughed at that, again not very bothered. He would end up weird, Alistair just knew it, and it'd be all her fault too. She did it to him, drove him insane in many ways, new every day, completely unexpected and invariably sensible for that odd personality of hers. But she would smile at him half-uncertain, as she was still an elf and a mage and a Warden to boot, only she wouldn't look at the floor anymore, would drag him up to _their_ room, in _their_ keep while _their_ son slept in the room at the end of the hallway.

And he would choose to keep her all over again.

* * *

"What are you thinking about?" The moon was high outside, its light filtered through the dark curtains. By his side, Samahl wriggled closer, obviously cold. Without thinking, Alistair shifted so she would press against his side, arms around her to keep the heat more efficiently than their blankets. "You've been frowning for a while now."

Had he? Strange. He really had no reason to. Everything was just fine. Perfect even.

"Nothing," a kiss whispered against her forehead, her hair tickling his nose as he moved. "Nothing at all. Just happy."

Now, if he could only get rid of Avernus.


End file.
